


Reach The Unreachable Stars

by tb_ll57



Series: The Unreachable Stars Series [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, post - endless waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Show them that you don't give a damn what they think, anyway. Screw them.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reach The Unreachable Stars

Drowning.

No, Zechs thought then. Head trauma. Painful in the offing, but shorter in duration. One good whack and then swift unconsciousness. Never to wake.

Or possibly a good stabbing. There was romance to a good stabbing. Honour. And he'd leave a hearty blood stain on the floor. Although that would really only bother the cleaning staff.

'What a sour face you do put on at these things, Your Highness,' one of his fellow Sanqians observed, loudly, nearby. To think he'd once dreamed of being reunited with his people. The obnoxious toad, Astrolabe or Astrology or something like that, went on at volume to the overdressed sots standing with him. 'Our Prince is a such a serious young man, always overwrought.'

'He is indeed,' an aged, and somewhat better intentioned, woman agreed, watching Zechs with concern. Lady Gemma, who had been one of his mother's Ladies in Waiting, and who returned to Court only for grand occasions, like this one. She dared to approach him, of all Sanq's nobles, and touched his arm. He permitted it only because she was ninety if she was a day, and because her wrinkled hand trembled in his hold.

'Lady Gemma,' he said grimly.

'It's a party, Your Highness,' she said gently. 'Your sister's birthday.'

'And she should be the object of your attention, not myself.'

'You should be happy, Milliardo.'

And he would be. If he could be. If he weren't dragged out in public, to be propped up on display. A public reminder of the war-- of the war's bitter and fragile reconciliation. Milliardo Peacecraft had died and been reborn. He had signed a peace treaty in this very throne room, standing for White Fang, as Lady Une had stood for OZ, and Heero Yuy for the Resistance. Relena Peacecraft, the Princess of Sanq, had stood just beside the child of the man who had once made her Queen of the World. Mariemaia Barton, who had very nearly thrown all into chaos, had placed her shaky signature last to the treaty, and on that day three years ago they had meted out the terms of a new world order. So far it had lasted. And, so far, he had played his part, with a name he'd grown to hate, in a kingdom he'd learned would never welcome him.

'Have you noticed?' Asteroid stage-whispered, as Zechs raised his glass to his lips. 'That's his third drink this hour.'

Zechs gritted his teeth.

'Ah!' a bright voice announced. 'There you are, Pookie. I've been looking positively everywhere for you.'

Zechs choked a little on his scotch. 'Me?' It was Quatre Winner, and that word had definitely been _pookie_. And by all appearances it had been aimed at Zechs.

Definitely Zechs, because Winner took up stance beside him, winding his hands around Zechs' arms and batting his eyelashes up at Zechs. 'Thank you for cornering him, my Lady,' he told Lady Gemma. 'Darling, it's impossibly boring here. You promised me there'd be dancing. Make those insufferable musicians play something fun, won't you? Be a dear.'

He had no earthly idea what was happening, but it had the open-mouthed attention of the Sanqian nobility. They were all staring. 'What are you doing?' he demanded, from the side of his mouth, trying to subtly detach himself from Winner's hold. 'Are you drunk?'

They were pressed so close with Winner draped all over him that he could see Winner's barely repressed eye-roll. 'Rescuing you,' Winner murmured. 'Will you play along already?' He leaned up across the inches separating them, his lips brushing the long hair beside Zechs' cheek. His fingers on Zechs' jaw turned his head, and Zechs had no doubt that from the right angle it would appear that he'd just been kissed. He flushed hotly. 'Something Spanish with a beat,' Winner suggested slyly.

Even Lady Gemma was grinning openly as Zechs was excused himself. Their conversation began again in earnest before they were more than five steps away, and Zechs plowed determinedly on, trying not to listen. Winner laughed softly, and patted his arm.

'I suppose I ought to just say thank you,' Zechs said finally, telling himself to relax. He forced himself to roll his shoulders. He left his half-finished scotch on a server's tray as they passed it.

'You're quite welcome,' Winner answered. 'You've had a face like a thundercloud all evening. We thought you could do with some aid.'

'We?'

'Duo and I.' Winner nodded his head, and Zechs followed his gaze. 'We flipped for it, at first, but Duo didn't think he could pull off the pet names.'

Duo Maxwell. Gundam Pilots, he thought, but only because he'd been thinking of the past. Tonight, they were just two more young men in the crowd of handsome young men who'd come to attend a beautiful young princess' birthday party. Their identities weren't even publicly known, unlike his.

'You could have just asked to speak to me somewhere else,' he said.

'Where's the fun in that?' They'd been walking with purpose, and not, as he thought, just away from the crowd. They'd reached the musicians' stand. Winner loosened his hold on Zechs' arm and leant up the stage to speak with the cellist. A moment later, satisfied, he was leading Zechs onward again. Out into the lonely middle of the large wooden floor. He thought he heard a titter, and tried to look, but abruptly found himself facing Winner, who pulled him hip to hip, arranging him like a puppet. Zechs went obediently, purely out of fear. Winner placed Zechs' hand on his hip, took the other in his own, and then the music was starting. 'Move,' Winner said patiently, and Zechs did.

'What are you doing?' he asked again. 'I mean-- rather-- why are you doing this?'

'I don't mean this critically, but you're not a very good lead.'

'I'm a little distracted,' he defended himself, and renewed his grip on Winner's hip, taking a firmer hold and concentrating on the music's beat. It was a loose three-four, gentle and intimate. Quite a choice for their debut, but not complicated. Winner's smile deepened as he caught the rhythm. 'But you evaded my question.'

'Does it really need an answer?' As Zechs stepped backward Winner followed, then reversed; then they whirled about, and Winner nodded toward the crowd. 'You still have every eye in the place. But now they envy you for enjoying yourself. Give them a show. Dip me and laugh as if you haven't a care in the world.'

Surely it wasn't that easy-- but Winner had ahold of his wrist and went back with muscular grace, and Zechs held with automatic training from years of old lessons, but the surprise of it shocked a laugh out of him anyway. Winner grinned at him as he dangled there, then let himself fall limp. Zechs scooped him back up. Someone in the crowd applauded, and then more joined in, a smattering that became a warm wash from dozens. Winner performed a jaunty little bow as Zechs blushed. But he didn't have long to suffer. Soon others were joining them, young couples eager for their chance at fun. By the third dance, even Relena emerged to join in. With none other than Duo Maxwell on her arm. She didn't seem displeased with that arrangement.

'How did you do this?' Zechs wondered.

'Do what?'

'This.' He gestured to the crowd growing around them, the happy talk, free of cruel gossip, unhappy glowers. Wine flowed freely, but so did the small amuse-bouche hors d'oeuvre, and Relena's favourite chocolate mouse cups, and someone had sliced the birthday cake and servers were dispensing that on small plates as well, and it felt as though the mood of the entire palace had lifted by an enormous degree. 'It's an entirely different place.'

'I didn't do that,' Winner said, smiling. 'You did. They take their direction from you more than you know. They watch you, and when you're unhappy, they are. Even the Princess.'

Zechs shook his head, feeling some of that unhappiness encroaching on him at the mere mention. 'They watch me for weakness,' he said stiffly. 'They wait for it and they pounce on it. There aren't many who want me here, after what I did at Libra.'

To his credit, Winner didn't try to deny it, and Zechs relaxed when he realised that. Instead, Winner nodded his agreement. 'Many never will,' he said. 'But for those who are looking for a reason to support you, you have to show that you can like it here. That you don't look at this as an exile or a duty that you have to survive and endure, and they'll learn to compromise with you as you will with them. And for the rest of them... well... show them that you don't give a damn what they think, anyway. You're not a sad old man sitting in a corner to be picked on. Screw them.'

He was ashamed to remember that a mere half hour ago he'd been doing exactly that-- contemplating the fastest way out of his suffering, even if had been-- mostly-- in jest. 'Screw them,' he agreed.

Winner grinned at him. 'That's the spirit. Say it as if you really mean it.'

'Screw them.' Daring, he raised his arms, and draped them over Winner's shoulders. 'Is this-- all right?'

Winner's grin grew wider. 'It is.' He came closer, close enough to rest his head on Zechs' chest. 'Is this?'

He cleared his throat. 'Um. Yes.'

Winner chuckled. 'Good.'

He dared just a little more, the most he could manage, and ruffled the soft hair on the back of Winner's neck, at the junction between curls and warm skin above the collar of his tuxedo jacket. 'And... this?'

His answer was a long sigh. 'Yes. Very nice.'

After that they hardly left the dance floor. The musicians kept up a lively set of couples and group dances for hours, and though Zechs was obliged to trade his partner for a few dances, once with his sister and a few times with dignitaries who could not be politely denied, Winner always found him again. Even when Zechs had been a relatively popular figure in OZ, pursued by Treize and Noin and not an inconsiderable number of others, he'd never been publicly sought like this, almost besieged with attention from someone who was only posing as a loved one. Still, it was a convincing pose. He even found himself forgetting. He returned from a short break in the john and stopped at the punch queue, asking for two cups and then scanning the room anxiously for Winner as if he'd been doing it for years, never questioning himself until he found Winner standing with Maxwell on the far side of the throne room, and discovered in himself a capacity for jealousy that left him more than a little surprised.

Then the much more familiar feeling of self-condemnation followed. Fool, he told himself bitterly. He returned the punch cups to an empty server's tray, and left.

At first his angry steps had no direction by away from the party. But he'd been a guilty prisoner of this palace since its reconstruction three years ago, and he knew it as well as anyone could. Before long, his mind caught up with his instincts, and he knew where it was his feet were taking him. The ocean path. It was the quietest place a man could go when he'd been stifled by crowds for too long. It took him through the gardens, decorated for the happy occasion with faerie lights and candles, and past the unobtrusive guards, who looked him askance and let him pass unbothered. Sanq's beaches didn't have the same sandy expanse as southern, more mediterranean countries did, but the windy roar and gravel crunch blocked out the floating music that followed him, and that was all he asked for. He climbed the long wooden pier that led out over the beach, and descended the broad steps to the water. He shed his fine leather shoes and his silk stocks, rolled up his white tuxedo trousers, and plunged directly into the water.

Almost immediately he lost feeling in his extremities, but he welcomed the numbness. Fool, he had been, to fall so easily prey to his own worst enemy-- not a Gundam Pilot, although he was a fool on that account, too, to not even question if there were any leftover motives there. No, it was sillier than that, and therefore more dangerous. He'd been lonely, and so he'd taken Winner's advances at face value. Winner had offered friendship, free of charge, and he'd taken the offering with both hands. Sanq had never really opened its arms to its prodigal son, and how could it? Milliardo Peacecraft had murdered to avenge his murdered father, and he'd known even as he'd fired the bullet that he was forever locking himself out of his kingdom, but he'd still fired. Just as he'd fired the Libra, knowing it was an evil thing, but knowing as well that there was a kind of evil necessity in it as well, an awful necessity that Treize had understood well before Zechs ever had. If war were deadly enough, dreadful enough, it could be renunciated. It would have to be. Humankind would rise up against it and declare it wrongful. And so they had done. His own sister had led them in it. Whether it would ultimately last, he didn't know, but he had survived to play his part, and he would hold to that duty, however grim it was. But it had been grim. Grimmer than he had known. He wasn't happy in Sanq, and it took its toll on him, wore on him, ground him down a little more every day, until a handsome young man rescued him at a ball and asked him to dance.

'Milliardo.'

He jumped. Heart pounding, he turned. 'I didn't hear you come,' he said.

Winner, of course. Who had the grace to appear contrite. 'I called your name,' he said. 'Several times. I followed you...'

'My name is Zechs.' He was cold. Frozen. Past shivering, even. He began to move from the water, stumbling on feet that didn't feel the bottom. Winner reached to help him, and he avoided it. 'I only use Milliardo officially.'

'I understand. Sit down.' He did, with Winner's hands on his shoulders, pushing. His wet feet were wrapped in something dry and warm; Winner's jacket. He began to shiver, which, he thought dimly, must be a good thing, if he'd been cold enough to not be shivering before. 'Please don't be upset,' Winner says quietly, 'but how much did you have to drink earlier?'

Zechs let out a harsh laugh. 'Not that much. Does it shock that I'm just like this?'

Winner hid a smile by turning his face down. 'I can't say shocked, no.'

'Why did you follow me?'

'Shouldn't I have?' Winner's hands moulded the jacket to his feet. Winner settled in the gravel, tailor-style, and began to rub him gently, bringing back feeling slowly with each stroke. 'We were having a good time. Then you were gone.'

'Too good a time,' Zechs said bluntly, grimacing up at the stars. 'I-- started to forget it was a ruse.'

'Ah.'

Just that soft exhalation. Too soft for meaning to be attached to it. Zechs didn't try.

'You didn't really flip a coin for me with Maxwell,' he said.

Winner drew in a deep breath. 'No,' he said. 'He likes Relena. We flipped for her.'

'Relena?' The idea of anyone liking his sister was too much acrobatics for a weary brain. He shook his head, but it didn't help. He surrendered quickly, and surrendered the rest of bodily function not long after. He stretched out in the gravel, staring up at the dark night sky. A moment later, Winner joined him, laying shoulder to shoulder with him. 'Do you like Relena?' he asked, bracing himself.

'She's very sweet,' Winner said. 'She let me try on her ballgown. She fills it out better than I do, though.'

His laugh was swallowed up by the waves, but he covered his mouth with his hand just in case. 'You didn't.'

'Only for a bit of fun.' Winner was grinning up at the sky when he risked a peek. 'She doesn't smile enough either. It must be genetic.'

'This place,' Zechs said, and didn't know how to finish. 'I don't... I don't think it's what either of us... meant. Hoped. Expected.'

'I suspect its royal family isn't what its people expected, either. You've surprised them. They don't know what to make of you, and they haven't reacted at their best. But I think a second chance would do all of you good.'

'You're an optimist,' Zechs muttered, and closed his eyes. His feet tingled, when he wiggled his toes. He probably hadn't hurt himself any in his idiotic plunge into the elements. One more dare against the universe that hadn't come to much. 'I feel as if I ought to have realised that about you by now.'

'And you need a good night's rest. Shall I pack you off and tell you it'll all look fresh tomorrow?'

Whether it was bravery or madness that made him say it, he would never know, but it came out in a glorious, unchecked eruption nonetheless. He said, begged, 'If I ask you to come to bed with me, as a part of this... thing... tonight, as-- not-- a-- part of that-- would you?'

After that, he couldn't bear to look. He'd done amazing things as the Lightning Count of OZ, things no other man could do, heroic acts, defiant acts, amazing acts. He'd defeated enemies both human and machine, faced down hordes, executed maneouvres that supercomputers had proclaimed impossible. He couldn't look at the man who lay on the beach next to him considering that babbled request for a pity fuck.

Then, as if he'd asked nothing more worrisome than to pass the salt, Winner said, 'All right.'

 

**

 

'Did you decorate?'

He had no real memory of walking back to his suite. They'd been on the beach together, and then they were inside. He could still hear, muffled by the distance, the party going on, but it was getting late and that wouldn't last much longer. The valet had been in to turn down his bed and to leave him lamps to light his way. A fire had been laid in the hearths in both the sitting rooms and his bedroom and both were burning low but strong, spreading welcome warmth after the cold outdoors.

'No,' Zechs answered belatedly. 'It's the historical commission. This was the bachelor suite for the Duke of Holstein. I'll-- I'm-- going to change. Do you mind? I'll just be a moment. I'm wet.'

'I don't mind,' Winner said.

'There's brandy, and scotch,' he said, awkward now that he had Winner here, and no real idea what he wanted to do with him. 'I can hang your coat there. I-- I'll just be a moment. Please sit down.'

He left a pile of sand behind him when he shed his formal clothes in the bath. He tried to scrape it into the bin, and finally just left it. He was no longer frozen from the sea, but his skin was clammy and salty, so he rinsed in the shower, standing with his head under the pounding spray and asking himself what, if anything, he really thought was going to come of this. A night with a young man. Certainly not the first in history-- they called them one night stands for a reason. He could bear that idea with a certain amount of calm. And he had enough perspective now to admit that the fact that Quatre-- he should probably call the man Quatre, now, if they were going to do this-- the fact that Quatre was a Gundam Pilot probably had as much to do with anything as the fact that he knew enough about the real Milliardo Peacecraft to know there was a Zechs Merquise in there to reach for, and that was all that had prompted it. Compassion. It had been long enough since he'd allowed it near him that he'd barely recognised it.

And that was what it really was. Not sex, not even pity. Compassion, from someone who was not quite a stranger, not quite an enemy, and not quite a friend. But someone who could be all those things, and had instead been something else. A rescue.

He'd been thinking about drowning, hours ago. When you were drowning, you didn't stop to ask too many questions about the man who offered to save you. You just said thank you.

Zechs took a deep breath, and turned off the water.

Quatre was perched on the leather settee before the fire in the sitting room. His bright hair gleamed orange in the flickering light, and it cast shadows on his face that made him seem older than in the hours earlier, but when he smiled up at Zechs, it softened him again. Zechs said nothing. He merely held out his hand. Quatre rose, and took it.

Zechs led him down the hall to his bedroom. It was a small enough room, though the balcony made up for the space, but that wasn't where Zechs walked him. He brought Quatre to the bed, and faced him there, stepping close. He unbuttoned Quatre's shirt, starting with the points of his collar, and moving down the line until he reached the red silk cumberbund. 'May I?' he asked politely.

Quatre's lips curved upward. 'You may,' he answered archly.

Zechs reached around his narrow waist for the small clasps in back, and let it fall to the floor when released. He untucked Quatre's shirt, catching the last two buttons as he did so. He brushed it slowly from Quatre's shoulders, enjoying his first real encounter with Quatre's skin. It was not entirely smooth-- it could not be, not on a man who had fought in, and ultimately won, a war-- but he enjoyed the experience in its intimacy as much as he had the first moments of their dance for its newness. Quatre was slimmer than he, bonier in the shoulder and spine where Zechs had heavier muscles, but there was an appealing triangularity in the arrangement of his torso, broad shoulders that tapered to a trim hipline, his chest bisected by a neat line of blond hair that gleamed just slightly in the low light of Zechs' golden lamps. He traced it with a fingertip, following it to an indented navel, and let his finger catch in Quatre's trousers.

'And this?' he asked.

Quatre inhaled deeply. Was that uncertainty? He looked long and deeply into Zechs' eyes, and Zechs met his look as openly and honestly as he knew how. Quatre nodded once, and there was nothing uncertain about it. Zechs unhooked the button, and drew down the zip. No. There was nothing uncertain about this encounter at all. As his knuckles brushed over tented cotton, Quatre leaned up to him, and caught him in a kiss.

His mouth was warm, his lips just slightly chapped. But they opened for him, and soon their tongues pressed together, sliding in what became pleasing patterns as he worked Quatre's trousers off the rounded bumps of his behind and pushed them to the floor. With his hands conveniently placed there, he squeezed, and Quatre shuddered against him, stepping in to press against him. That was best of all. He found enormous contentment in something so simple, Quatre's mouth on his, soft breath against his cheek, warm flesh beneath his palms, solid to the curve of his fingers, yet promising more when he dared to curl them inward, when Quatre shifted just so and he could feel heat, real heat pulling him closer to something just out of reach beneath the cotton undergarments.

Evidently Quatre did not feel the same way. How many minutes passed in gentle petting, Zechs couldn't have said, but Quatre let him know decidedly when it was time to move on. He stepped back, and gave a firm yank to the knot of Zechs' bathrobe.

'It's not fair,' he said, as he pulled it open. 'You're covered practically to the chin in this thing. I want to see.'

Zechs grinned even as he felt heat in his cheeks. Trying to suppress his blush, he let the robe fall from his shoulders. He was nude beneath, but it hardly mattered. As soon as he saw, Quatre, apparently believing fair was fair, shed his own underpants. He managed to do it while keeping his eyes firmly on the prize.

'Do you understand yet why they're jealous of you?'

'I understand why they are _now_ ,' Zechs corrected, and reached for him again.

They explored again, as leisurely as before, but ranging wider, touching everything. He found the spot he'd first discovered on the dance floor, where Quatre's hair tapered away on his neck, and it produced a now-familiar shiver of appreciation. It was matched when he touched the inside of Quatre's thigh and found a scar that went nearly into dangerous territory, but seemed extraordinarily sensitive. Quatre found the dip in the small of his back, and liked it, and licked at the hollow of his collar bone, but only, he whispered, because that was exactly as tall as he was, and he wanted to mark it. This time, it was Zechs who found himself impatient to move on. It took only the press of his hand to Quatre's to convey it, wordlessly, but when Quatre turned to the bed, Zechs pounced him. Quatre landed with a laugh, bouncing on the many pillows, sliding low when Zechs yanked him down by the hips, and then falling silent when Zechs touched his lips with two fingers. Zechs kissed him slowly.

'Have you...' he began, wondering how to ask quite what he meant.

Quatre smiled slowly. 'Gently used,' he murmured. 'I'm only twenty, and I've been a little preoccupied.'

That decided him, and he wasn't sure if he were relieved or disappointed, but either way it seemed easier. He didn't ask anything further. He slid low himself, and closed his mouth around Quatre.

Everything lapsed into quiet then. Quatre made small sounds, barely more than breaths. His hands clenched in the sheets, fists that tightened or relaxed as Zechs plied his tongue against him. He took his time, for both their sakes. There was no need to rush, no urgency in either of them. He pressed kisses against Quatre's thighs, sucking the skin, leaving loves bites, playing with him until Quatre finally made some indication of impatience, once even reaching down to tap him chidingly on the nose. When Quatre at last was flushed and tossing his head fitfully, Zechs applied himself in earnest, reaching high to rub the little nubs of Quatre's nipples, reaching low to rub the other little nub that reacted even more sensitively. Quatre seized tensely all over, a whispered warning just before he came. Zechs waited until he'd fallen limp to climb up the bed, spitting not-quite-elegantly into a tissue and hiding it away. He sipped from a waiting glass of water, and settled himself on a nest of pillows to watch the delicate flush fade from Quatre's face. He stroked it away with the backside of his fingers.

Quatre opened eyes that seemed very blue even in the dim light to watch him back. He coughed to clear his throat. 'Shall I do for you?' His hand, searching blind over the coverlet, found Zechs' lap, and curled home to caress. When Zechs managed a tight nod, Quatre kissed him quickly, and shifted over. Zechs helped him bend comfortably, and dropped his head back to rest as Quatre sucked him in.

There was less finesse to it. He had expected there to be, after what Quatre had said. There was more than enough determination, and so soon after his own pleasure. Zechs stroked languidly at his long back, the ladder-like bumps of his spine. He followed the spine to the line between his ass cheeks, and between the cheeks to the spot that made him tense again. One touch there translated all the way to Zechs, who shuddered himself when he felt teeth accidentally brush against him. It took a moment for Quatre to regain the control to finish, but he came back with twice the power. Zechs was barely able to warn him, and he came to himself panting for air, inarticulate for long minutes after.

Sometime during that Quatre came to rest against him, his head on Zechs' chest, pillowed just above his armpit. Zechs stroked the nape of his neck, mindlessly finding that spot he'd liked. He stared at the antique clock over the hearth for a long time before he registered the time. It was well past four.

He meant to say as much, but he never did, before he fell asleep.

When he awoke, there was sunlight at his curtains. Which were open. The valet didn't usually disturb him unless he had appointments, and he knew he'd had none, not the morning after an event as huge as the Princess' birthday. But he didn't remember--

Ah. Quatre.

Who was not in bed. Zechs spread his hand over the sheets, and found them cool.

The question answered itself as soon as he left the bedroom, and heard the shower running from the bath. He made a bleary trip to the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and wondering where he'd left his robe until he tripped over it. Rather than dress himself, he just wrapped himself in the somewhat wrinkled robe, tying it off and preferring to wait for his own turn with the hot water. They should have cleaned up the night before.

Thinking of that, he did make an effort with their clothes. His own were still in the bath, but Quatre's were on the floor, and he didn't have anything else to wear until he could get back to the guest quarters. Zechs shook out the shirt and trousers and undergarments and made clumsy folds out of them. He could loan Quatre something of his, but they'd be giant's clothes on the smaller man, and even if it would feed their ruse from the previous night, he didn't think it was really necessary any more to show off Quatre leaving his quarters in borrowed morning-afters. That might satisfy prurient minds, but his own insecurities had been more than quieted. So instead he used the phone to quietly call the staff line and ask that Quatre's overnight bag be found and brought to his suite as soon as possible.

As he was hanging up, the bath door opened, emitting a cloud of steam and its occupant. Quatre came out drying his head and shoulders; he draped the towel about his waist, tucking it in casually. 'You're awake,' he observed, favouring Zechs with a small smile. 'How do you feel this morning?'

That could cover a broad range. 'Good,' Zechs settled on answering. 'You?' he added tentatively. 'You must have been up early.'

'I'm an early riser. But I didn't want to disturb you.' Quatre came to him, his hand sliding up Zechs' arm to his elbow. His kiss didn't land quite on Zechs' mouth, but beside it. 'Do you mind about the shower?'

'Mind? No. I, ah--' There was a knock at the suite door. 'They're fast,' Zechs said. 'I just finished calling about your clothes.'

'Oh, you needn't have. I already rang Duo.' Quatre answered in just his towel, confidant enough in the identity of their caller. He was correct, at least. It was Maxwell, carrying a small duffel. Zechs hung back in the hall, unsure of his role in early morning greetings-- besides remembering that if there had been a real coin-toss, Maxwell had been vying for his sister, and he could only hope that if Maxwell had been present in the guest quarters to pick up a bag, it meant he hadn't been in Relena's quarters last night making his own rescue attempt.

'Good morning,' Quatre said, brightly enough, and kissed him on the cheek. Maxwell returned it distractedly, trying to peer past him. He seemed disappointed until he spotted Zechs, and then he only pursed his lips.

'Hey,' he said.

Zechs inclined his head. 'Hey,' he answered in kind.

'Nice digs.' Maxwell turned his head again, but his eyes didn't leave Zechs. 'Did you decorate?'

'No,' Zechs said, wondering if there were something to this question he wasn't understanding. 'It's the historic commission.'

'Oh.' Maxwell abruptly commenced ignoring him and refocussed on Quatre. 'There's a big breakfast in the hall for everyone who stayed, and then there's some kind of lawn games and tour thing. You in?'

'All right. I'll meet you there.'

'Oh,' Maxwell said again. 'I don't mind waiting.'

Quatre only smiled. 'I'd like a few minutes with Zechs,' he said, patient with having to spell it out, though he'd clearly wanted to brush over it. 'Thank you for bringing my bag.' With that, he shut the door in Maxwell's face.

Zechs bit his lip to stop a smile. 'He's protective,' he said.

Quatre shrugged, but it ended in a sigh. 'Duo might have danced with you,' he said, 'but he wouldn't have gone to bed with you.' He propped his bag on the leather settee, and freed a pair of trousers. He dressed where he stood, dropping his towels to the carpet. 'Are you coming to breakfast?'

'I customarily avoid those sorts of things.'

'You don't have to,' Quatre said softly. 'I'll be there.'

'For today.' Other customary things were returning to him-- his customary doom and gloom. He shook it off with an effort. 'I don't mean to be maudlin. It's a bad habit.'

'Terrible.' Quatre arranged his damp hair with a careless hand. 'I...'

'Come back,' Zechs said. He swallowed hard. 'I'm sorry. For blurting that out. But-- it would please me. If you did, some day. Come back. There's no-- strings attached. No dancing required. Or-- other things. But I would like to see you again, some day.'

The smile that earned him was rich with warmth. 'I'd like to see you again, as well. I'm glad you said that.'

'I am, too.' That eased the tightness in his chest. 'Can I also say I'm glad that you rescued me last night?'

Quatre held out a hand, and Zechs took it. He let himself be pulled down into a kiss.

'You're very much welcome,' Quatre said, and kissed him again.


End file.
